Belethor, Human Trafficker
by SnakeSnakeDolphin
Summary: When Belethor is talked into holding a prisoner for the Thalmor for a hefty price, he has no idea what he is getting himself into. He is cast as the unlikely hero and thrust into a world of deadly plots and even deadlier adversaries, and he must use all of his wits, cunning, and luck to get out alive. Rated T for violence and some dark themes and humor.
1. Prologue

**[A/N] Hello dear readers and welcome to my first (and hopefully not last) fanfiction. I am just starting out, so any and all criticism and/or feedback will be extremely helpful for me to allow me to improve my writing. Big thank you to BrunetteAuthorette99 for editing and encouraging me in my writing endeavour. **

**Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own the copyright to the Elder Scrolls Universe or the characters within. I do own my OCs etc.**

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**Prologue: You Never Should've Come Here**

It was the dead of night when the bandits slipped over the eastern wall of Whiterun. There were four of them, dressed in cloaks that hid their faces. Taking care to avoid the guards, they made for the central marketplace in a single file line, the last and largest one dragging a sack behind him. The stalls of the marketplace and the dark streets of Whiterun were silent; there wasn't a guard in sight. The only noise came from a lone Cyrodilic owl perched upon the roof of the Bannered Mare.

One of the bandits smiled. "Seems like our friend has a good eye for where the guards are," he muttered quietly.

The foremost bandit took out a deer pelt pouch, rifled through it, and fished out a small iron key from its depths. He crept to the door of Belethor's General Goods and fit the key into the lock. With a swift turn of the key, the door swung open with a quiet creak and the bandits slipped inside.

In the murky blackness of the darkened shop, Belethor woke with a start from his slumped position on his counter. He stayed stock still for a moment, before mustering his courage.

"Who's there?" he called into the darkness, trying to hide the quaver in his voice as he reached for the steel dagger in his belt.

"Go for that blade, and we'll both regret it," the bandit leader replied in an even tone edging on amusement. "Relax Bel, it's me, Agryn."

Belethor breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the nervous sweat from his forehead. "You had me scared there," he remarked and, finding a torch, proceeded to light it, illuminating the room with a yellow glow.

He motioned to the rest of the bandits. "Who're these fellows?"

Agryn pulled back his hood, and motioned for the others to do the same. He had light brown hair and the same piercing brown eyes and wide nose as Belethor's. In fact, it would be difficult to tell them apart, save for the fact that Agryn had a scar running from the middle of his brow down to the side of his jawline.

The bandit leader pointed to the nearest one, a hulking, brute of a Nord with a bald head, a thick, braided black beard, a face like the side of a mountain, and more scars than could be counted in a lifetime. "This is Wilgunn, my second in command, and our strong man in case things go wrong." Wilgunn grunted in confirmation and made a motion with his face that could be considered a smile with some heavy use of imagination.

Agryn moved on, Indicating a short, pudgy dark elf with a long thin nose, square chin, and characteristic red Dunmer eyes. He looked young, but his face was marred by premature frown lines. "is Van – Vaniki – Vanikim –" Agryn fumbled as he struggled to pronounce the name.

"Vanikimar," the dark elf rasped, sending a chill down Belethor's spine.

"Right," Agryn cut in, "What he said. He's our mage."

Vanikimar scowled at Agryn, and Belethor shivered; there was something unsettling about the dark elf. "Don't let his looks fool you; he is wonderful at knitting," He continued blithely.

A hiss escaped Vanikimar's throat, and the bandit leader glanced over and saw the Dunmer's scowl. "And magic, especially magic," Agryn finished.

"And this is our newest addition, Cyllandra; Bosmer thief extraordinaire," he said, indicating a tall, female Bosmer with bright red hair and light green eyes.

Belethor gave a tight smile. "This is all well and good," he said dryly, "but you are hardly here for a courtesy call. What do you want?"

"Wilgunn," Agryn said sharply, suddenly all business.

Wilgunn hefted the sack that had previously sat unnoticed by Belethor on the floor onto the counter, and then stepped back. "Keep this hidden for three days," Agryn continued. "You will be visited by a Justiciar, and you are to give this to him or her. Simplicity itself."

"I have an item that I give to the Thalmor: what's the catch?" Belethor inquired.

"The catch is that what you are giving to the Justiciar is not an 'it,' 'it' is a 'he.'"

Belethor froze. "You're giving people to the _Thalmor_?"

Agryn shrugged. "It pays the taxes"

"You don't pay taxes."

"If I did, this would be paying them."

"You do realize this poses a substantial risk to me? What if he escapes?" Belethor asked slowly.

Agryn smiled, and produced form one of his numerous pockets an impossibly large bag and dropping it onto the counter with a loud clanging. "Ten thousand septims," he said, making eye contact with Belethor.

"And besides, he won't escape. He is tied up nice and tight and is firmly gagged."

Belethor was conflicted. On one hand the money would be nice, but on the other hand... if he was found out it would ruin him. He would be imprisoned, his items would seized by the Jarl, and his shop would be sold to another merchant looking to make a living. Everything he had worked for would be gone, and when he was released, he would have nothing, that's what had happened to Brenuin, the former owner of what later became the Drunken Huntsman. However, it just was three days, and nothing would resurface about him doing this, because if the Thalmor get you, you disappear. A bead of sweat trickled down his face.

"Easiest money you'll ever make," said Agryn. "Probably more coin than you'll see in a year otherwise. I'm sure other shopkeepers would accept that money, if you're not willing."

Belethor relented. "Fine. I'll do it. You are quite convincing. I wonder why you didn't go into the merchant's trade?"

"Bandits and pawnbrokers they're the same thing. They're questionable, disliked, and they want your money. No difference, really. No offense."

Belethor just rolled his eyes, his brother was annoying sometimes.

"Honestly, I'd love to stay and talk, but we have things to do" Agryn said, and him, and his merry band of bandits left in a hurry, before Belethor had a chance to reconsider.

The sack moaned and shifted. He stared at the sack as the torchlight began to fail. It was going to be a long three days.

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**[A/N] Thank you for reading, and again, it would be totally awesome if you left** **your reviews, etc.** **As likely I will update faster if I know that people are actually going to read and (hopefully) enjoy my writing.**


	2. Chapter 1, Part 1

**[A/N] Considering the lukewarm response, this story now has 100% more bacon. However, considering that there was no bacon to start with, that doesn't actually change. **

**In reality, the only response has been positive, and I thank every one of my viewers, reviewers and people who have followed the story. Thank you to BrunetteAuthorette99 for editing and giving feedback, and a big thank you and shout-out to Unknowing One, jakefan, and the guest reviewer(s) (you know who you are) for my very first reviews/follows! **

**In honor of you guys, I am uploading the first part of Chapter 1 today. I wasn't planning on posting until tomorrow or the day after, but got so excited that I outlined the first chapter and wrote the first half of this. Also, I realized that while this part is plot relevant, it would be weird to put it with the other part of chapter one, and too short to be its own chapter. Expect the next part tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.**

**TL;DR: Thank You! This is an early (and consequently short) mini-chapter**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my original characters. TES is property of Bethesda.**

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**Chapter 1 Part 1: Sidetracked  
**

Marius Cavius awoke in darkness. This was nothing new to him; he awoke for training in Solitude before the sun rose every morning. However, he knew something was wrong.

Then the pain hit. A dull, aching pain in his head, and then a burning, pulsing pain in his throat. Marius tried to lick his parched lips, but instead met a rough cloth jammed into his mouth. He reached to remove the obstruction, except his arms wouldn't obey. It was then that he realized that his hands were tied behind his back.

He muttered curses, or at least would've, had he not been gagged. As it were, it sounded less like curses, and more like "Mmmmphhh."

Then came the memories.

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**On the Road From Solitude, Some Days Earlier:**

** "**It's a nice day to be on the road," Marius proclaimed as he took another handful of grain from his pack to feed to Beraj as he re-saddled him. "C'mon boy," he murmured, "There's still a ways to go; we aren't even half way to Rorikstead yet; and we haven't hit the rough roads yet."

The roads in Haafingar were well-maintained, with even paving stones that provided good purchase for a horse such as Beraj. In the Reach, however, the roads were ill-maintained, with loose and uneven paving stones, which, if taken too quickly, could injure or even cripple a horse. It certainly wouldn't be the first time an unfortunate accident had happened on the cliff roads. For once, Marius decided, caution was the best option. Endangering the life of his beloved Beraj wan not a good option. His mission was to warn the imperial guards of Karthwasten of the threat of a Stormcloak raid. The honorable General Tullius had told him in no uncertain terms not to fail, and he was determined not to.

Just then, two travelers came into sight from around the bend. They were sitting on a large boulder on the roadside, taking a break. One of the travelers stood up and began to walk toward Marius, signaling him to stop. Marius eased Beraj down from a canter to a slow walk as he scrutinized the traveler, a Breton with brown hair and piercing eyes. His face sported an ugly scar that ruined an otherwise handsome face. Looking past the man at his companion, Marius could tell only that he was a dark elf. It was the Breton who started the conversation. "Which way to Rorikstead? My friend and I are quite lost."

Marius thought for a moment before replying. "Did you come to this road from the East?"

"Yes, from Whiterun. Why?"

"Then you would've passed it ages ago."

The Breton's face twiched, and he swallowed, seemingly suprised. "Really? I'm quite shocked. Thank you for assisting us Mister..."

"Cavius, Marius Cavius. Imperial officer under General Tullius. And you?"

"Agryn Hawkfield." A strange and unsettling smile spread across Agryn's scarred face. "Wilgunn." he said.

The Imperial frowned, confused. "What?"

Suddenly, Marius was sprawled on the ground, unable to move due to immense pain.

"Is it him?" came a voice that sounded like a broken grindstone.

"I wouldn't have you hit any old random person on the road, would I?" came the sharp reply. "Get him into the sack. We need to get him to Whiterun, and fast."

Marius' last thoughts as his vision receded into nothingness were of Beraj and the General.

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**[A/N] The first author's note was long, so I'll keep it short. A review is wonderful, especially if it is constructive criticism. A follow is also always welcome. Until next time! :)  
**


	3. Chapter 1, Part 2

**[A/N] Wow. This took a while to write, I was working on this all of today pretty much, when I was supposed to be writing journal entries about_ The Old Man and the Sea _by Ernest Hemingway, which, if you haven't tried to do summer homework when you're pumped about doing something else, it is roughly akin to trying to cut off your foot with a spatula; it isn't going to happen any time soon. Thank you B.A.99 for editing my story, thanks jakefan for reviewing, and a huge thank you to Soseolga for the constructive criticism. **

**Disclaimer: TES belongs to Bethesda, only my OCs belong to me.**

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**Chapter 1 Part 2: The First Day: Off to a Good Start**

When the Whiterun guards entered, Belethor was crouched by a low shelf, polishing a mammoth tusk. He heard their heavy boots on the aged wooden floor, and instantly leaped up and did an about-face, plastering a larger-than-realistic smile on his face. _There are only two of them; they would've brought more if they were here to arrest me outright. They might, however, be here to search the premises..._

"Welcome to Belethor's General Goods," he said with a merriness he didn't feel. "Everything is for sale my friends – _everything!_ If you want to sell it, I'll buy it! I'll even buy..."

Belethor trailed off, mentally finishing his sentence: _...Your relatives if you're looking to sell. _

What had seemed like a joke didn't seem nearly as funny now as it did the previous day.

The guards began to take fliers from their packs, and Belethor relaxed almost instantly. "Tirdas already?" he questioned in a relieved tone.

Every Tirdas, a few guards went to the shops and market stalls of Whiterun with "Wanted" fliers, bounties, and other governmental papers before putting them around the city. The theory was that if criminals were on the run from Markarth, for example, they would need supplies, so they would visit stores in other places with impunity, seeing as the guards have no right to arrest them for crimes in other holds. However, the information on the whereabouts of criminals was valuable, and would be rewarded. Also, while the arrest law applied to guards, it did not apply to those not on direct payroll of the government.

There were only three fliers today, and the guards laid them out on Belethor's counter. The first one sported a picture of a Bosmer women, wanted for stealing over one thousand four hundred septims from Riften.

Belethor smiled inwardly at the irony He recognized her from Agryn's crew, but didn't remember her name. "Good with faces, but not with names," he had always been told by his mother. He shook his head and the guards moved on.

He didn't recognize the face on the second poster, and it was of such low quality the only thing he could glean was that he was of one of the human races, either a Nord or an Imperial, as the man was missing many of the facial characteristics of the people of High Rock, with close cut hair, a square jaw, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken multiple times. He was missing and last seen in Solitude. Belethor indicated that he didn't recognize him, and the guards moved on.

The final poster was bearded Argonian wanted for poaching in Hjaalmarch. Belethor waved the guards away, and they left, grumbling.

Business went as usual, with a smattering of adventurers, some of the townsfolk, and despite a good day for sales, Belethor's mind was elsewhere, on the bag of septims in his strongbox, wondering if it was really worth it. Was the risk worth the reward? Belethor wasn't sure.

A little after midday, he was feeling a bit hungry, so he rooted around the shop for a loaf of bread and an ale. Belethor pondered whether the prisoner would be hungry or thirsty, and decided that it would be more beneficial that the prisoner not be dead. He grabbed a chair, another loaf of bread, and another ale and headed for his storeroom. He dragged the chair behind the stairs where the sack was stowed, and sat the prisoner on the chair before removing the sack. The man was unconscious, that much was evident. His face was dirty and he was dressed in rags. Something about the man seemed familiar, but Belethor brushed the nagging thought aside.

Belethor poked the man in front of him. "Wake up." He then tried slapping him. The unconscious man's head lolled to the side, and drool dripped out of the gag. Belethor swallowed. _Oh, this is going to be fun, _he thought sarcastically.

As Belethor worked on the seeming futile effort to wake up the Imperial, he heard the door creak open. He stopped cold, realizing in horror that he forgotten to lock the shop.

"Hey boss? Boss? Mister Belethor?"

_It's Sigurd,_ Belethor thought. After doing some side jobs for people around Whiterun, Sigurd scraped together enough money to move out of the top floor of Belethor's store, and into the Bannered Mare. Sigurd had convinced him to give him a few days off in order to move, and Belethor had completely forgotten that Sigurd came back to work today.

_ I have to think fast, maybe I can get out of this. _

"Hey, oh, there you are," Sigurd began to walk over, and Belethor's mind began to race. " Sorry about being late; the bed in the Bannered Mare is much more comfortable than my bed was here, so I oversle– "

The sight of a bound, bloody, and bruised man unmoving on a chair, with Belethor standing over him stopped Sigurd dead in his tracks. He blinked, and then took a step back.

"This," Belethor stated slowly, "is my cousin Ezekiel, who showed up last night extremely drunk and told me he had picked the wrong person to fight in while drunk. Would you draw a bucket of water from the well and bring it to me so we can wake him up?"

This explanation seemed to satisfy Sigurd, and he went to fetch water. The shopkeeper slumped against the wall, his heart pounding. _That was much too close, _Belethor decided. _He would have to be more careful in the future_.

Sigurd returned after a minute, and when he saw Belethor, he looked concerned and placed the bucket next to him. "Anything else?"

Belethor looked up. "No, thank you, you can have the rest of the day off. Close things up when you leave." Belethor replied hastily.

After a quick thank-you, Sigurd left the shop, locked the door and posted a notice on the door stating that the store was closed.

After he was sure his assistant was gone, Belethor picked himself up off of the floor and hefted the brimming bucket. With a mighty heave, he drenched the Imperial in a icy torrent of water.

* * *

Marius awoke with a start. He didn't remember passing out, but realized that he had been moved; instead of lying on the floor, he was now sitting upright. He felt cold and wet. His head still throbbed, and now he felt hunger gnawing at his gut. He felt his gag come free, and took a deep breath for the first time in days. The air tasted different, not musty anymore. He opened his eyes, expecting to be in darkness, but was instead blinded by radiant light. A silhouette of a person loomed over him, and the Imperial tried to clear his head, trying to form coherent inquiries from a sea of confusion.

"Who are you?" he meant to ask, instead, it came out as something akin to the dry, rasping mutterings of a dying man. "Drink" commanded a voice.

Suddenly, liquid was rushing into his mouth, soothing his parched lips and dry tongue. He swallowed, and felt the fire in his throat die away, replaced with the familiar heat of alcohol.

"Eat," the voice said, and bread was placed between his lips.

Marius chewed and swallowed. "Ale," he pleaded in a hoarse whisper "I'm so thirsty."

Once again, ale passed through his lips, and once he drank.

The voice spoke again. "What is your name?"

The voice had given him food and ale; the voice couldn't be evil. And even so, he hesitated before responding. "Last time that I had told someone my name, I was knocked out and thrown in a sack," he croaked.

"Well, you're already tied up, and hitting you over the head won't accomplish much of anything," the voice replied testily.

"My name is Marius Cavius."

Marius' eyes finally became accustomed to the he did, his eyes widened. "You!"

"Excuse me?" The man looked confused.

"You're the man from the road, Aegrin Hawkfield! Where am I? Why am I here? Is Beraj safe?" A flood of questions poured from the terrified Imperial.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Slow down there. You mean Agryn? You're mistaken; he's my brother. My name is Belethor."

Now that Marius studied the man more closely, he could see that this man – while looking almost exactly the same as the man he claimed to be the brother of – was missing the scar, and he had deep frown lines cutting channels in his brow, which made him look older, and more world weary. He didn't look malevolent, but Marius had learned the hard way that looks can be deceiving.

He shivered. "Are you one of them?"

"One of who?" Belethor said, raising an eyebrow.

"The marauders. The people who jumped me on the road. Are you working with them?"

"Well, yes, in a manner of speaking." The Breton sounded rueful.

"Is this what you do for a living? Kidnap people and hold them hostage? That is disgusting. Are people just items to you?" Marius' voice rose in volume. In response, Belethor clamped his hand over the soldier's mouth.

"No!" he snapped. "I make an honest living running the Whiterun general store."

_ That answers one question. _Marius thought. _Whiterun. I'm in Whiterun._

"Do you want some more ale or bread?" Belethor asked as he took his hand away from the Imperial's mouth.

When no response came, he shrugged, forced Marius' mouth open, and stuffed the gag in. He then picked up the sack and pulled it over the captive's head.

Once again, Marius Cavius was plunged into darkness.

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**[A/N] Thanks for reading! I know it is slow at the moment, but it will really pick up after the third chapter. Expect the next update in a few days. Until next time :)  
**


	4. Chapter 2

**[A/N] Whew, this chapter was long in the making. This is sort of an in between chapter, so the story will really pick up in chapter 3. As a side note, I HIT 200 VIEWS WOOOOOOHOOOOOOO!**

**Disclaimah: I only own my OCs, all rights otherwise go to Bethesda.**

**Chapter 2: The Second Day: Give it Arrest Already**

Belethor stared out the widow of his shop, turning an aged septim over in his hands – one of the many from his brother. _A coin of irony_, he thought.

Emblazoned on the front of the coin were these words:

THE EMPIRE IS LAW. THE LAW IS SACRED.

He was working illegally to get something that proclaimed the law to be sacred. While many people disliked him, he was generally considered an honest man of business. _Well, not for very much longer if I am found out. _He thought grimly. _I won't be found out, I can't afford to be found out. _

Belethor flipped over the coin. On the back were more words:

PRAISE BE TO AKATOSH AND ALL THE DIVINES.

Belethor smirked. Not all of them. Nords and their Talos worship. While he certainly had no love for the Thalmor, they did keep the crazy northerners in line.

"Well, most of them," he muttered, thinking unkindly about Heimskr.

"Sorry, were you talking to me?" Sigurd asked, seeming to materialize behind Belethor.

Belethor nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected appearance. "No, but since you are here, go and..." he struggled to find a task to give to Sigurd. "...chop wood," the storekeeper finished lamely.

Sigurd rolled his eyes. It didn't need to be done, and he knew it. "How about I tidy up the storeroom?" he suggested.

"Yes, of course," Belethor said offhandedly, as he had already moved Marius into the attic room, to avoid further questions.

Belethor looked at Sigurd quizzically as he left. _Sigurd has never offered to clean anything before. _He shrugged. _I guess he's learning to take initiative._

It was just minutes from closing time, and Belethor felt as if he needed a good drink. He asked Sigurd to lock up the shop, and left for the tavern.

* * *

The Bannered Mare was busy this time of night, as a huge mix of people from all occupations and walks of life were there enjoying ale, food, and bar fights. Belethor found his way to a corner table and slumped into the rickety, wooden chair. He ordered a drink and sipped it, trying to forget the man held captive in his attic. Belethor shivered as he wondered what the Thalmor would do to Marius. He stared wistfully at the normal tavern activity, wishing that things could just be normal again. If it took the Thalmor to do that, he would damn well have them. The past two days had been draining on him, what with constant fear of arrest, not to mention the guilt now weighing down on him. Now, there was only one more day, and then Marius wouldn't be his problem anymore.

Little did Belethor know, the trials of the second day were not yet over.

* * *

As Belethor exited the Bannered Mare over an hour later, he heard a commotion by his shop. He stopped cold in his tracks, fear clenching in his stomach. Guards were clustered around, and he pulled one of a higher rank aside for inquiry.

"What happened?" Belethor asked in conversational tone, forcing his terror down.

The guard captain motioned to some of his subordinates to come over, hauling someone behind them. "We found him drunk and climbing out of one of your windows. He must've broken in."

The guards hauled the man into the torchlight, and Belethor suppressed a gasp, instead swallowing as he realized that it was Marius.

"You must be mistaken," Belethor said, struggling to keep his tone even. "This is my cousin... Ezekiel."

The guard captain looked unimpressed. "So he wasn't, in fact, breaking into your shop?" he said incredulously.

"Yes, definitely," Belethor replied quickly.

"All right, so he isn't guilty of breaking and entering."

"Thank you," the shopkeeper said as he took a very drunk Marius by the arm and started to drag him back to the general goods store.

"However, he is guilty of being drunk in public," the guard captain continued.

Belethor stopped and turned around in trepidation.

"The fine for being drunk in public is 250 septims."

Belethor's shoulders slumped as he heard those words, and he groaned.

* * *

A half hour later, Belethor was in the dungeon under Dragonsreach, talking to three guards and negotiating for Marius's release.

"What didja say his name was again?" one of the guards asked again for the fourth time.

"Ezekiel," Belethor replied wearily.

"How are you related?"

"He's my cousin," Belethor lied.

The guard looked suspiciously at him. "What race are you?"

"Breton."

"What race is _he_?" The guard jabbed a finger at Marius.

"A Breton as well." Belethor replied, hoping that the guard didn't spot the untruth.

Another guard cut in. "He's lyin'. That ain't a Breton; I know an Imperial when I see one."

Belethor tensed. His eyes drifted over to Marius, who was chained to a chair with his head lolling to the side. The shopkeeper looked away.

"I think my friend is right," said the first guard. "He looks distinctly Imperial." The guard took a step towards Belethor. "Lying to a guard is a punishable crime."

Belethor swallowed and took a step back as the guards advanced.

"My mother was an Imperial."

The guards stopped and looked over in surprise at Marius, who appeared to have come out of his drunken stupor in order to provide this explanation. Disappointed, the guards relucantly retreated.

"Bail is 300 septims," one finally said.

"I thought that it was 250," Belethor protested.

The guard held out his hand "The bail fee."

Belethor scowled. "Bail fee? You are so full of sh–"

"We could increase bail to 500 septims," the guard threatened.

"Fine, I'll pay." Belethor coughed up the money with a pointed glare.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the lead guard said with a false smile, unchaining Marius from the chair.

Belethor's scowl deepened as heard the other guards snickering. "Can you walk?" he asked Marius, ignoring the other men.

"I think so," the Imperial answered.

* * *

As the two of them made the trek down from Dragonsreach, Belethor asked Marius a question that had been plaguing his mind.

"Why did you lie for me?"

"I didn't," Marius said.

"I don't understand. What do you mea–"

"My mother was an Imperial. My father was too, but the guards don't need to know that."

"Clever," Belethor replied after a minute.

Marius looked at Belethor. "Hardly. I'm regretting it already. At least with the law, you know what's in store: some prison time, uncomfortable conditions. With you, well..." Marius stopped. "Well, I still don't know what you are going to do to me." His tone turned hopeful. "I don't suppose you'll tell me?"

By this time the pair was at Belethor's shop door, The market square was quiet and desolate, with only the crackling of torches and the calling of nocturnal birds.

Belethor looked at Marius, and, despite his best efforts, he felt a twinge of regret about what he was doing. _He doesn't deserve this. _"It's better that you don't know."

Marius nodded solemnly and entered the general store, wondering what in Oblivion awaited him.

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**[A/N] Tell me what you think! A review is always welcome, as well as favorites and follows to keep updated as the story progresses. **


	5. Chapter 3

**[A/N] Soooooo yeah. It's finally here. I was on a vacation that lasted 7 days, and then I didn't feel like writing and just played League of Legends for like 9 hours over two days, but it's finally here! :D Huge thanks to BrunetteAuthorette99 for editing LIKE A BAUS! And the Epic Review award goes to ShoutFinder, wrote length reviews for all of my previous chapters. YAY.**

**Disclaimer: Bethesda owns everythang, except my OC's, and seriously, who would want those guys :D  
**

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Chapter 3: The Third Day: Burning Hatred

_Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. _Belethor's fingers danced on his counter, drumming in a steady a single person had entered his shop for the duration of the day, and he was getting apprehensive.

His idle mind turned to thoughts of the prisoner – _Marius. Not prisoner: Marius. He has a name, _his consciousness chided him.

_ What do the Thalmor want with him? _

Belethor puzzled over this question for a while and, finding no answer that made him feel good about himself, resolved not to think about it anymore. Instead, he occupied his mind with thoughts of what he would do with the money. Improve the shop maybe, or buy more inventory to keep customers coming.

He looked towards his strongbox and grimaced. _Is this worth it?_

It was after the closing of the work day. Belethor frowned; the Thalmor should already be here. Maybe it was Agryn playing an elaborate joke on him. Or maybe the Thalmor decided that they had better things to do.

On a whim, he went up to the attic room: to the hooded Marius. Belethor took off both the cloth and the gag from the sleeping figure.

"Wha?" Marius' eyes fluttered open.

Belethor pulled up a chair.

"This is where my part of this ends. Or it would, but the Thalmor haven't shown up yet."

The Imperial gasped. "The Thalmor? By the gods, no. They do terrible things. Please! Don't hand me over to them!" Marius began to struggle in his chair.

"Stop," Belethor commanded. "Tell me why the Thalmor want you."

Marius stopped struggling. "First, you should know that I am in the Legion."

Belethor nodded. He had guessed this already.

"The general doesn't trust the Thalmor: he knows that they are up to no good. He believes that the Thalmor are also funding the Stormcloaks, playing both sides against the other." Marius paused.

"And?" Belethor pressed.

"Against orders, he's been sending agents to glean information about them. Last week, a Nord broke into the Thalmor embassy and stole sensitive documents from under the noses of half a dozen highly trained Justiciars during a dinner party. The general believes that some of these documents implement the Thalmor in a series of killings in Whiterun Hold."

Belethor nodded thoughtfully. He had heard about the killings: caravans attacked, Travellers killed, and nothing taken but papers.

"The general was planning to send secret messages to the Stormcloaks explaining the situa–

"I thought you said that the Thalmor are funding the Stormcloaks," the shopkeeper cut in.

"Well, likely not directly," Marius replied. "The only thing that Ulfric hates more than the weakness of the Emperor is the Thalmor."

Belethor accepted the explanation, and motioned for Marius to continue.

"As I was saying, the general was planning to send secret messages to the Stormcloaks explaining the situation, and the Thalmor must've gotten wind of it."

"But why you?" the shopkeeper asked.

"I am one of those agents. Or was, before all of this," Marius amended, his tone turning pleading. "This is a matter of utmost importance, you have to let me tell the general!"

Belethor sat back in his chair taking in what he'd just heard. The supposed alliances were nothing but facades, and bitter enemies shared a common goal.

"Give me your hands."

"What?"

"Your hands. Let me see them."

The storekeeper pulled out his dagger and when Marius offered his hands, Belethor cut his bonds and handed the blade to him.

"You can do the rest. There are 1,000 septims on the counter downstairs. Use it to buy a horse from the stables, and go."

Marius looked up at Belethor. "You need to tell the general what you've seen."

"Fine. I'll follow you, but I need to lock up first."

Marius nodded, and, finally having worked his ankles and upper arms free, and stood up, stretching his legs before leaving the room. After a minute, Belethor heard the shop door open and shut.

Belethor went downstairs, refusing to think about what he was getting himself into. He wanted no part of this war, save from the profits, but no one liked the Thalmor, and he was no exception. He emptied his strongbox into a deerskin pouch and went to the store room. He peeled up floorboards from the corner of the room, revealing an old wooden chest with no markings save for a hawk surrounded by wheat. The shopkeeper caressed the crest before pushing on it. A loud click sounded, and the chest creaked open.

Inside was nothing but a simple steel sword with the letters "G.H" and the same insignia from the chest inscribed on the hilt. Ignoring the sword, he dumped most of his remaining septims into the chest, and pocketed the rest.

Belethor closed the chest, replaced the boards, and began to pull on his thick leather boots.

He shouldered his coat and flung open the door – and stopped in his tracks. "What in Oblivion?" he swore.

Three Thalmor stood at the door, looking expectantly at him. One, obviously a Justiciar, was clothed in long black robes. The two underlings flanking him were wearing light elvish armor. "Going somewhere?" the lead Thalmor asked.

"I...I was j-just going to ch-chop some wood for my f-fire." Belethor blurted out, backing up into his shop.

The Justiciar rolled his eyes, showing that while he did not believe the excuse, he would accept it for the time being. "Where is the package?" the Altmer asked, his frigid tone adding to Belethor's nervousness.

"He's gone." Belethor said, swallowing.

"What?" came the chilling voice of the Thalmor.

"But.. I... know where he is!" Belethor said quickly. "He escaped and was arrested by the Whiterun guards. He's in a cell in Whiterun as we speak," Belethor lied.

"Thank you, mister Belethor." The Justiciar turned to leave. "Kill him, leave no traces."

"What!?" his eyes widened as he searched for a way out.

"Goodbye, mister Belethor." The officer left, robes trailing behind him.

Now just the shopkeeper and the two Thalmor underlings remained in the store.

"Now, we can talk this out, I can pay you – very much – very, _very_ much." Belethor said hastily as the one Thalmor moved to block the door while the other one advanced towards the shopkeeper.

"Please, no." He reached for his own dagger, but swore as he realized that he had given it to Marius.

The advancing Thalmor darted forward, and plunged an elven dagger to the hilt between Belethor's ribs. He stumbled backwards, and the Thalmor tore the blade out, the barb catching and further rending his flesh. Without the support, Belethor collapsed in a quickly growing pool of blood as his vision began to haze over.

"Torch the place," he heard one order. "Quickly, we need to amass a force to kill the bandit and his crew, unlike this spineless half-wit."

He heard the Thalmor underlings leave.

_No, I won't die. I won't. I am a Hawkfield. _

_ That didn't stop our father from dying , or our mother, _a voice inside him said.

_ "_Shut up!" Belethor yelled out loud

_It most certainly won't save you. There is nothing in a name. Nothing. _Belethor could feel the heat of the blaze now. _Is this it, how easily you give up? Maybe you deserve to die like a skeever, burned from his hole._

"Shut up, dammit! Shut up!" he screamed in anguish.

Then the voice dealt the crushing blow. _It won't save Agryn. He's next you know. You heard what they said._

Belethor's breath caught. _A silly name won't save him, but you can. _As he tried to breathe, but felt only searing smoke entered his lungs, choking him.

With a colossal effort, Belethor lifted himself from the blood-slicked floorboards and onto his hands and knees, and crawled to his counter, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His fingers blindly scrabbled for a potion on the shelves.

_Magicka, no. Stamina, no. Where is it? _His hands finally found another potion, and he desperately felt for the cork. Blackness was closing in from the corners of his hazy vision. Carved in the top of the cork were the letters "WB."

With shaking hands, he took the cork out and inhaled the contents. Magically enchanted oxygen filled his lungs. He had a little over a minute, he knew. He tried to lift his hands to summon healing magic, but there was only a spark, and then it died. He couldn't drink another potion, because if he opened his mouth, the contents of the last potion would escape.

Then, with a mighty crash, one of the wooden beams of the upper floor of his house collapsed, blocking the front door. He grimaced and managed to stand on weak legs, and made for the back door.

Belethor stumbled through the smoke into the storeroom, finding he floor burned away, revealing what was beneath. He frantically jammed his palm into the insignia of the smoldering chest, hoping the mechanism wasn't damaged. He heard a loud click and almost breathed a sigh of relief before realizing that if he did, he would die.

When the chest opened, he desperately rifled through it until he found the old sword. Tearing it free in a shower of septims, he hugged it to his body and mustered the last of his strength to break through the burning back door and collapse in the grass behind his shop. He fought to grip to his consciousness as he watched his life work burn before his eyes under the cold, watchful night sky.

The burned shop was discovered only minutes later, but Belethor was nowhere to be found.

* * *

**[A/N] I need to remove the humor tag. Seriously. If you look and it's gone, I already removed it.**


	6. Chapter 4

**[A/N] Belethor is not dead (both the story and person) anyway, enjoy.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Not even my brain.**

Chapter 4: A Dour Arrival

It was early morning, and a high bank of fog had rolled in from the Ghost Sea, engulfing the Solitude arch in a deadening blanket of mist. The sun had not yet risen, and most of the citizens were asleep.

A single candle, burned down to the wax, was struggling against the darkness. The flickering flames illuminated the weary face of General Tullius. Dark shadows cut deep under his eyes, revealing his recent lack of sleep. He was staring at his strategic map, with a line plotted down the road from Solitude to Rorikstead and Karthwasten, with the line stopping at the crossroads, and a small flag sticking at the end of the line, with the hastily scrawled words: _last known location. _

He stared at the map a little longer, and then felt around in the darkness for a chair and slumped into it, letting out a long, defeated sigh.

"Looking for something?" came a voice from out of the gloom.

Tullius leapt from his seat, drawing his gilded sword from its scabbard - and brandishing it in front of him.

"Or perhaps someone?" Marius said, stepping into the candlelight. "Sir."

"Where in Oblivion have you been, soldier?" the general said, sheathing his sword

Marius scrutinized the older man, frowning. "You look tired, sir."

Tullius brushed off the comment. "I said, tell me where you've been. And that's an order."

"With all due respect, sir, you might want to sit down for this."

It was about an hour later when Marius finished. The general had his hands supporting his time- worn visage. "This is very bad – very, _very_ bad. We have a crisis on our hands, soldier."

"You don't say, sir."

"And your friend, this Belethor fellow, where is he now?" Tullius asked.

"He said he would follow me; he should..." Marius trailed off, a worried look crossing his face.

"...be here already," the general finished.

"But the Thalmor didn't show," Marius said, now sounding uncertain.

"Suppose," the older man started, "that the Thalmor were just late in coming, and arrived after you left, and realized that they were stiffed 10,000 septims. The Thalmor don't take kindly to betrayal, you know that firsthand, Marius."

Marius looked wretched. "I'm sure Belethor will be fine. The Thalmor must have decided not to show, that's all. Besides, they wouldn't dare touch a civilian, right?"

"He could be valuable. If the Thalmor _do _decide to turn up –"

Marius was already on his way to the exit, grabbing his traveling cloak from the wall.

"Marius."

"Yes?"

"Your horse wandered back here; he's in the stables."

Marius nodded curtly and ran from the room, the wooden door slamming shut behind him.

* * *

Belethor slumped over his stolen horse, hovering on the edge of consciousness. The Potion of Waterbreathing had expired minutes ago, and he found himself struggling to draw a breath into his ravaged lungs. Belethor finally gave into his injuries and rolled off of the horse, landing unceremoniously on the ground.

He dragged himself over to a dirt outcropping and leaned against it. With shaking hands, he tore off a piece of his cloak, balled it up, and placed it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to call upon the magic.

At first it didn't come. _Please, no, no, no don't fail me... please... _Finally, much to his overwhelming relief, a small flame appeared in his hands.

Belethor used his other hand to remove the blood-soaked remnants of his shirt to reveal the gaping wound. Clamping his teeth down on the cloth, he shot a concentrated burst of flame into his injury, sealing it.

Next, he retrieved the crumpled bounties from his pocket and began to look through them until he found what he was looking for. "Halted Stream Camp," he murmured, looking up at his horse. "I must warn him." With some effort, Belethor stood and clambered back on.

* * *

The silence that enveloped the Solitude arch was shattered as the clatter of hoof beats on paving stones rung through the still sea air. Beraj tore out of the capital at breakneck speed with Marius straddling his back, face grim and eyes squinting against the razor sharp wind. Six Imperial soldiers flanked him, looking bewildered and tired, roused only minutes before to aid the spy in his search for a man they had never heard of.

Tullius sighed as he heard them leave. He glanced to the corner of the room, where a raven was perched on a stand, dozing. He whistled and the bird looked up, shaken from its sleeping state. It rose from its stand, gliding gracefully over. The bird had a strange, transparent quality to its feathers.

"Master?" it croaked.

"Go to Jarl Balgruuf," he commanded. "He might be interested in knowing that the Thalmor are behind his killings. Also, tell him that – "

"Tsk, tsk general. We can't have you sending that, can we?"

A dark form materialized from the air, stepping into the light. The man was an Altmer with a thin, pinched face, ebony hair, and a long goatee. His red-tinged eyes dripped with undisguised malice.

"Morohtar," The general stated. "What are you doing here?"

"Arresting you for treason, Tullius." The last word was spat, as if it were distasteful to him. "Hand over the message, and I may let this slide."

General Tullius rose from his chair, drawing himself up to full height, and though not a small man by any stretch of the imagination, he was still, much to his dismay, dwarfed by the high elf. Tullius' face twisted into a snarl. "You won't get away with this. My guards– "

" – are dead, and soon every Imperial soldier in the city will be imprisoned for treason as well. You and your soldiers planned to give Skyrim to the Stormcloaks; quite shocking, wouldn't you say? The Emperor will be notified of you treasonous acts, of course," he assured smugly. "We will be fair though. Imperial soldiers pledging allegiance to the Thalmor will be pardoned. As for _you_ though, you will be put on trial and then executed, unless you give up your outrageous claims."

"The High Queen won't stand for this," Tullius said, his confidence wavering.

"Elisif is going to have a bit of an accident. She's going to fall from the highest tower in the Blue Palace," Morohtar responded, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Quite tragic really."

Tullius' hands clenched into fists. He could kill this insolent Thalmor, wipe that smirk off of his face. He knew he could kill him; he was unarmed, and magic took focus and time to cast. By the time he was ready to respond, he already be dead.

The general drew his sword with a yell, and lunged towards the Altmer. Morohtar sidestepped, summoning a bound sword. "A shame it had to come to this. I thought you an ally to the cause of the Thalmor."

"Your words are as empty as your soul!" the enraged man yelled, wheeling around and lunging again.

Morohtar blocked the clumsy blow and raised his sword, preparing for a strike. The sword came down, and the general raised his own sword to block. As the bound sword came down, the shape became indistinct. The conjured weapon melted through the other man's sword and re-solidified, plunging into Tullius' shoulder, and continuing down on its deadly arc into his heart. The general froze, the harsh realization of his death coming as a shocking revaluation. His body crumpled to the ground, dead before it hit the floor.

The high elf removed a soul gem from his pack and held it towards the general's corpse. The oblique gem began to glow, emanating a cold, blue light. "The afterlife is too good for the likes of you," the Thalmor officer whispered to the soul gem.

An Altmer soldier entered the room, wiping blood from his elven sword. "Sir. What should we do with his body?"

Morohtar pondered the question for a moment. "The gutter should be sufficient. How goes the purge?"

"Its over. Most of the soldiers pledged allegiance to the cause. Those that didn't were dealt with as per your orders. Solitude now belongs to the Thalmor."


End file.
